


I'm Gonna Love You ('Til the Stars Fall From the Sky)

by srididdledeedee



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: (kind of), Historical, Jewish Character, M/M, happy ending with a sprinkling of pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 19:25:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10600623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/srididdledeedee/pseuds/srididdledeedee
Summary: Snapshots of Sniper and Spy, over the course of a few eras.





	

The stars were the first things he knew. There was _Modar_ and _Fæder_ at some point in his life, but only briefly. No, the stars were always there for him. Eternal.

He'd see others sometimes – people in groups, working together to build and survive. He'd see men and women, taking down the tall trees of the forest to make their dwellings. They were Celts. He was a Celt. Everyone was a Celt, for all he knew.

He called himself Mochán. He'd travel, one forest to another with settlements in between, until he reached the sea. Then he continued along the coast, searching for — something.

There was land across the water. He climbed rocks, cliffs, trees, anywhere to try to see it better. It was so close. _(Is that what I’m looking for?)_

A man (his hair was black and his skin was a light brown, more beautiful than Mochán had ever seen before) washed up on shore one day. Mochán approached cautiously, fully expecting him to be dead. But he jolted and spasmed, coughing up water. He weakly looked at Mochán.

 _“Auxilium,”_ he rasped. _“Me auxilium.”_

Mochán didn't understand, but he propped the man up and carried him back to his current tree-dwelling. His heart was pounding, and he laid the man down in what he hoped was a comfortable position.

 _“Gratias tibi,”_ the man said, shivering. Mochán nodded uncertainly.

The man died that night. Mochán himself died later that moon from a poisonous fruit.

He never did cross the water.

\---

Renaud was slightly nervous, but one looking at him wouldn't be able to tell. He stood at ease on the boat as they crossed the water in the dead of night.

 _For justice,_ he thought to himself. _To reclaim William’s rightful title as king._

The ships landed, and the Normans swiftly and silently disembarked. Renaud heard some soldiers murmuring a prayer to Christ, and he sent up a silent plea to his own God. As a group, they crept through the Anglo-Saxon countryside and began to construct a stronghold. King William had told them there was no way of knowing when the Saxons would be alerted to their presence.

In the end, it took a few weeks for the real battles to begin. They were vicious and bloody, but ended with a Norman victory. Harold was killed, and William crowned king. Renaud was just thankful he survived. He settled in England permanently, having nothing and no one in Normandy. He lived in a small cottage on the outskirts of town, going in once in awhile but mostly keeping to himself. He was very surprised to startle awake one night with a Celtic man standing over him with a knife.

Thankfully, he rolled out of the way fast enough to avoid an early grave. The man was caught off guard, allowing Renaud to kick him in the stomach and gain the upper hand.

“You are a very poor assassin,” he said simply, fiddling with the man’s knife.

 _“Bastard,”_ the man spat. _“Mynd yn ôl ble rydych yn dod o, nid yw hyn yn eich gwlad!”_

“French is the only language –” Renaud began, then cut himself off. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could more clearly see the man. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

The man bared his teeth and whipped out a second knife, jabbing Renaud through the stomach. He cried out, but managed to fling the knife he had already taken into the man’s forehead. They bled out in the cottage, their bodies lying there for years until the cottage itself collapsed on top of them.

\---

The Promised Land wasn't quite what Maynard expected. Lot less Christians. Almost no Christians, in fact. It made him think the Pope wasn't quite telling the whole truth about “reclaiming what was rightfully theirs.”

He snuck away from the party with no intention of deserting, but ended up doing just that. He meandered around, leaving when he knew there would be battles then returning. The locals didn't seem to be doing so well, but Maynard didn't care as long he was safe.

That was before he entered a sacked home to find a man(an Arab soldier who had survived the battle?) sobbing over the corpse of a woman. He was cradling a baby.

Maynard froze in the doorway. However, his entrance had alerted the man to his entrance, and the Arab spun around. He brought the baby closer to his body and drew a sword, his face contorted in rage. He made no attempt to attack Maynard, though. The were locked in a stalemate.

“To kill baby?” The man sneered in accented, broken French.

Maynard was shocked, but managed to stutter back, “N-no, I'm not – I'm not a soldier.” 

The man didn't change his stance, and Maynard didn't blame him. Maynard held his hands out to try to show he meant no harm, and he took out his own weapon. The man tensed, but Maynard quickly put it on the ground. He kicked it away for good measure.

“I won't – I will not – hurt you,” he stressed. “Do you want help?”

The man bit his lip. “No – not hurt the baby.”

“I won't hurt the baby,” Maynard promised. “In God’s name.”

The man glared at him and didn't lower his weapon, but he relaxed slightly.

“Help me with the – the woman,” he said. Maynard nodded and slowly moved toward her. “Must...dig,” he said.

“Bury her?” Maynard confirmed.

“Yes. Bury. Now.”

Maynard took the body out of the house, and the man followed. He found a more secluded area with loose dirt, and began scraping up dirt with his hands. It took hours, and the other man only lowered his sword once to comfort his child. When it was done, the man remained wary, but he finally sheathed his weapon.

“My name is Maynard,” Maynard said awkwardly.

“Maynard,” the man said. “My name is Reuben.” He gestured to the baby. “Jacob.”

“Where will you go?” Maynard asked.

“I...do not to know,” Reuben said. He was mixing up his words, but Maynard used his head and didn't correct him. “Thank you. For to bury her.”

“You're welcome. Would you want to – to travel together?” He said in a rush.

Reuben looked confused. “Slower?”

“Would you like to travel with me?”

Reuben looked conflicted. “No weapon?”

“What?”

“You have no weapon?”

“Not right now, no.” Maynard was incredibly confused. “That doesn't answer my –”

“You are of Europe. Pale skin. Christian,” Reuben said. “Jacob is Muslim, Muslim – two?”

Maynard tried to guess his meaning. “Yes, you two are Muslim.”

“No!” Reuben looked frustrated at his inability to communicate, but also nervous at what he was trying to say. His hand kept going back to his sword. “Jacob is Muslim, but two. I am _Jewish_.”

Maynard didn't know how to respond, so he dumbly said, “Oh, Jacob is half-Muslim.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Reuben said. He looked directly at Maynard. “Want to travel with us still?”

Maynard chewed on his tongue. He'd heard things, things about Jews and what they did and what they were. But he had just spent hours digging a grave for this man’s deceased wife. And Reuben loved his son so much, more than many Christian fathers Maynard had seen.

“Yes,” he said. “I do still want to travel with you.”

Maynard and Reuben traveled east, and set up a new life near Kufa. They were a new family, and Maynard and Reuben shared a bed by the time Jacob was six. They peacefully died old (much older than Maynard expected to live) within a few days of each other. They were buried next to each other.

\---

Roul went through his life feeling as if he was missing something. Something big, something important. Then the plague came to France and he couldn't worry about what he wasn’t missing anymore.

He didn't get sick. He was isolated with the other Jews in the ghetto, but everyday was a day lived in fear.

There was a man from England in town who hung around the ghetto. Mack something. He would eye Roul, and Roul would eye him right back. He'd never spoken with him, but he knew him from somewhere, he was sure. He even seemed friendly.

No one in the ghetto got sick, even as the greater town died. Roul couldn't explain it. The rabbi credited it as a miracle of G-d, just as the plague of Egypt passed over them.

Mack something stopped hanging around the ghetto. Roul was simultaneously grateful and disappointed. He would miss the winks and the silent laughs they shared.

Mack something came running to Roul early in the morning, out of breath and panicked.

“They're coming for you,” were the first words he said, and Roul was filled with dread. “They knew I came around here, and they asked if any of you got sick, and they blame you for the plague.”

Roul whispered, “What?”

“I didn't think they would come for you,” Mack said desperately. “I know you wouldn’t cause the plague, even if the rest of your lot did. You've got to go.”

Roul’s stomach dropped. He said calmly, quietly, “Thank you for telling me,” then wrapped his hands around Mack’s neck and snapped it. He could hear the mob coming. Roul was burned alive the same day.

\---

“What're you on for?” The man sitting next to Masheck asked in accented English. Masheck didn't know why, but he hated the other man.

“Treason,” he grunted.

“Fascinating, me as well,” his partner said dryly. “What a coincidence.” He glared at Masheck. “I'm on this godforsaken boat for a rather unflattering article insinuating one of the members of Parliament had sex with a warthog, what are you on for?”

“I simply said I hated the Prime Minister. Nothing as creative as you, you bugger,” Masheck said irritably.

The other man looked like he was about to say something, but a sailor came walking past to make sure no trouble was in the works. When he left, the other prisoner said, “Name’s Romain.”

“I don't give a rat’s arse,” Masheck growled. “Stop talking to me.”

Romain made a show of inspecting his clothes, quite a feat in a prisoner’s uniform and chains. “Perhaps it would be better to get on with your fellow prisoners, especially those who have gotten away with manslaughter.”

Masheck had to laugh at that – he had nearly five inches on the other man. “Is that a threat?”

Romain shot him a look. “It is simply a fact.” He picked at his nails, then casually remarked, “There are also no women on this ship.” He smirked. “So you may even want to get on your fellow prisoners.”

Masheck’s face heated up, and it was Romain’s turn to laugh.

“What are you, some sort of queer?” He spluttered.

Romain rolled his eyes. “Open your worldview. It's the 19th century – Americans are voting, my own country killed our king and queen, and queer prisoners are being sent to islands in the Pacific. Or are you a supporter of the 18th century way of life, fellow prisoner of mine?”

“Masheck,” Masheck said.

“Glad I have something to say in the moment of ecstasy now, _merci beaucoup,_ ” Romain said gleefully.

“Just when I thought you weren't so insufferable, you go right back to being a wanker. First thing I'm doing on the island is killing you,” Masheck snorted.

(As it turned out, the first thing Masheck did on the island was Romain himself. The pattern continued for years until they rolled onto a Tiger Snake and were both bitten, dying soon after. In his final moments, still on top of Romain, Masheck couldn't say he didn't expect it.)

\---

Ricard was enjoying the San Francisco World Fair until a man slammed him against an alley wall and began interrogating him.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” His assaulter asked furiously. He sounded British – no, Australian. Yes, definitely Australian.

“What?” Ricard asked in a daze. He wasn't often one to be caught so off guard, but his head was aching and the man had come out of nowhere.

“You took everything from me. My money, my parents, my identity – all of it!” The man growled.

“Me?” Ricard asked. His vision was blurring a little.

“Name. Your name!” The man demanded.

“Ricard Dufort,” Ricard said. He almost certainly had a concussion. “I believe you almost certainly gave me a concussion.”

“Why are you here? Is it to kill me?!”

_“Quoi?”_

“I said—” Everything went black then. When Ricard came to, it was in a hotel room that was not his own. His assaulter was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking guilty.

“Oh, you're up. Right sorry ‘bout all that, Ricard. Name’s Morton, and I only realized you ain’t the man I’m looking for after you passed out.” Morton rung his hands. “Really buggered it up.”

Ricard, no longer pinned to a wall with his head spinning, was quite mad. “Really,” he said coolly.

“Thought I could make it up to you,” Morton said nervously. “Kind of wishing I just left you in the alley. You look right pissed.”

“What the _hell_ did you think you were doing, pinning people on walls, falsely accusing them of murders they didn't commit!” Ricard’s voice rose to a yell, hurting his already sore head, and he paused to breathe. “Yes, I am an assassin, but one for the French government! I don't deal with civilians!”

Morton’s eyebrows shot up. “You….you _are_ an assassin?” He narrowed his eyes. “So you're a killer.”

Ricard drew his knees close to himself. “I am a government worker.”

“You kill people for money!”

“You were ready to kill me for free!”

“I thought you killed my parents!”

“Ah, yes, and the best way to deal with that is to shove them up against a wall!”

“You were half erect when you passed out!”

“You – I was _what?_ ” Ricard asked, horrified.

“You were getting off on being on the wall!” Morton accused.

Ricard was at a loss for words. He swallowed, then said, “This has nothing to do with you almost killing me.”

Morton snorted. “I think it matters when a bloke’s about to get his rocks off from just a little manhandling – from another bloke, no less!”

“You said I was only half erect!” Ricard said, his voice a little shrill. He stopped for a moment, then realized, “How did you even know that?!”

Morton had the decency to look embarrassed. “I was looking for your ID, and I – I just noticed!”

“You ‘just noticed?’”

“It's not like you're unattractive!”

_“What are you talking about?!”_

_“I don't fucking know!”_

Ricard had to stop, because his head was aching once more. He rubbed his temples. “So you decided you were attracted to me.”

“After I knew you hadn't killed my parents,” Morton interjected.  “And only because you were hard.”

“Because you were searching for my ID.”

“Because I had you against the wall.”

“And you had me against the wall, planning to kill me –”

“Because I thought you killed my parents, _yes_.”

“This is the strangest thing that has ever happened to me,” Ricard said. He wasn't angry anymore, he wasn't even embarrassed, he was just tired.

“So…..” Morton said, twiddling his thumbs. “You wanna do it?”

“I have a _concussion_ and you tried to _kill_ me.”

“Right, right! Sorry,” Morton said. “Later, partner?”

“I have a _concussion!_ And you tried to _kill me!_ ”

Ricard and Morton did become partners, in life and in hunting down the true murder of Morton’s parents (though it took some time). They died as they lived: ridiculously, and with each other.

\---

Mundy looked up at the stars in Teufort, René next to him.

“You ever feel like we were just meant to be?” He asked quietly.

René considered the question. “You know,” he responded, “I do.”

They were silent after that. The last thing they saw before they fell asleep were the New Mexico stars.

**Author's Note:**

> The periods I was aiming for, in order, were 1st/2nd century AD, 11th century(the Norman invasion), 12th century(the second Crusade), 14th century (spread of the Black Death), 1868(sending British prisoners of the state to Australia), 1915(San Francisco World Fair) and finally the 70s when TF2 takes place.


End file.
